


Copenhagen

by sophieisgod



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-20
Updated: 2010-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-13 20:03:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/141238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sophieisgod/pseuds/sophieisgod
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which a game of Questions gets somewhat out of hand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Copenhagen

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Storylandqueen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Storylandqueen/gifts).



“Round again?”

“Round again,” Martin confirmed. Douglas slumped back in his seat, sighing heavily.

“Alas, it seems as if the world will be denied the Dead Swan Players’ no-doubt-groundbreaking production of _Hamlet_ , at least until such a time as ATC gets its act together long enough for us to land the plane and unload our precious cargo. Speaking as someone who lives in the world, I know I’m devastated.”

“It’s a tragedy, it really is,” Martin said sadly. “ _Hamlet_ just isn’t _Hamlet_ without a rhinestone-encrusted skull and swords that shoot fire.”

Douglas snorted. “God, if only I could find someone rich and stupid enough to give me that kind of money to mount ghastly re-imaginings of classics from the dramatic canon. I could tell them I was spending it on special velvet soliloquy trousers, while really I’d be spending it on grotesquely expensive cheese.”

“I wonder what they’ll do for props, though, if we don’t make it in.”

“Good lord,” said Douglas. “They might be forced to _act_.”

“I suppose they’d just have to use whatever was to hand,” Martin continued, being either unable to distinguish Douglas’ extreme indifference from his general air of not giving a toss, or genuinely interested in the plight of travelling experimental theatre troupes whose logistical ineptitude left them dependent on rather shabby charter airlines. “What do they generally have to hand, in Denmark? Bacon?”

“Figurines of the Little Mermaid,” said Douglas. “Every size you can imagine. Definitely _not_ Disney-approved.”

“Blimey,” said Martin. Douglas watched him consider this, fingers drumming idly against the control column.

“Do you want to play Questions?” Martin asked suddenly.

Douglas blinked.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“Scared?”

Martin was smiling, tipping his head a little, as if he thought Douglas wasn’t up for the challenge. This indicated to Douglas that Martin had forgotten how most of their games of Questions tended to end.

“Shall we get Carolyn to referee?”

\--

 _“Hah!”_ said Carolyn, her voice tinny over the intercom. _“If you want to re-open that can of worms, by all means, be my guest. Build yourselves a terrarium and wriggle around in the dirt if you like, but I will take no part in it. Questions! I remember what happened in Faro, boys.”_

Martin squirmed in his seat.

“Carolyn, Carolyn,” Douglas said easily. “Rest assured, there will be no repeat of the Faro incident. For one thing, I have taken it upon myself, in my official capacity as First Officer, to ensure that Martin always has a spare -”

“Yes, thank you, Carolyn, thanks for your concern,” Martin cut in hastily. “It’s fine, we don’t need a referee, actually. In fact, we’re probably better off without one. Gentleman’s agreement, Scout’s honour. My word is my bond. That sort of thing.”

 _“I’ll send Arthur,”_ said Carolyn, and buzzed off before they could protest.

“ _Gentleman’s agreement_?” Douglas injected as much scorn into the phrase as he could. “Why not go the whole hog, say _Indecent Proposal_?”

\--

“So it’s hesitation, rhetoric, repetition, statements, synonyms, and non sequiturs. None of those things allowed, Arthur. And you can only answer a question with another question. Do you think you can remember that? Is there any chance of you remembering any of that?”

“Almost definitely not,” said Arthur cheerfully.

“Right,” said Martin, wincing, “right, it’s just that it is actually quite -”

“I’m sorry,” said Douglas. “Have I missed something? Have we made a _gentleman’s agreement_ not to mention the fact that Arthur appears to be wearing a cape?”

Arthur was, in fact, wearing a cape.

“What, this old thing? Mum said I had to stop faffing about with the props or else it’d be _my_ skull being tarted up and wept over by idiots, so I improvised a bit and used the curtain from the galley.”

“Of course you did.”

That explained the faintly clinging smell of microwaved chicken dinners.

“Look, are we going to play or not?” Martin burst out, practically twitching with impatience.

“Haven’t we started?”

“Well, obviously we haven’t - oh, right. I see.” He flushed angrily. “Starting from now, all right? Starting from now.”

Douglas shrugged, graciously.

\--

“Round again?”

“Is that a question?”

“No, Martin, it’s air traffic control.”

“Aha! That’s a statement.”

Martin produced a familiar pad and pencil from his pocket, looking rather pleased with himself.

“Are you really writing that down?”

Douglas vaguely remembered a time when Questions had been played for points. For him, this had long been eclipsed by the true meaning of the game: an intensely tactical psychological showdown, which only ended when the loser cracked like an egg. Douglas had an iron will, and a keen interest in bringing Martin to the point of tears. He rarely lost at Questions.

Martin’s head came up, defensive.

“What’s wrong with keeping score?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing,” said Douglas, holding his hands up, wide-eyed.

Martin just said, “Statement,” and made another mark on the paper.

“Well, shouldn’t Arthur - in his official capacity as referee - be doing that?”

Martin looked askance at Arthur, who was at that moment trying to perch a third hat atop the two already teetering on his head.

“No.”

“Statement,” said Douglas, and folded his hands behind his head.

\--

“What’s the square root of five hundred and twenty nine?”

It was most effective, Douglas had found, to jump in with a question when Martin was least expecting it. It kept the lad on his toes, and if Martin had any strengths at all, keeping cool under pressure certainly wasn’t one of them.

Martin paused, mouth open. His eyes widened, familiar, delicious panic spreading across his face as Douglas made ticking sounds behind his teeth and Arthur bounced on the balls of his feet, face contorted in sympathetic agony.

“Ooh, I’m afraid that’s hesitation,” said Douglas, voice oozing sincerity. “Bad luck, Martin.”

“Never mind, Skip,” piped Arthur, attempting what was presumably meant to be a comforting shoulder massage. Martin shrugged him off crossly.

“That’s practically cheating; you know square roots get me flustered.”

Douglas did know that, which was why he had asked the question.

\--

It was quiet; Arthur was now in possession of two things usually barred to him - Martin’s pencil and a small degree of responsibility - and it seemed the weight of expectation had awed him into silence. Douglas twisted round in his seat to look at him, and, yes. He was also wearing a monocle. Fanastic. Moments didn’t come much more opportune than this. Douglas cleared his throat.

“Arthur, would you like to play?”

Martin looked over quickly, immediately suspicious.

“Does this game work with three, Douglas? Really?”

Arthur beamed, impervious to the warning in Martin’s voice, and Douglas waved his hand grandly in Arthur’s direction, giving him the go-ahead.

“Animal, vegetable, or mineral?” Arthur asked eagerly.

Martin sighed.

“Arthur, you are aware that this is an entirely different game from Twenty Questions, aren’t you? You have grasped that?”

“Ahh, Skip,” Arthur said, knocking a playful punch to Martin’s arm. “You can’t fool me that easily, I’m afraid. How many legs does it have?”

As Martin sputtered ineffectually, Douglas looked at what he had done, and he saw that it was good.

\--

“Arthur, quickly - what do you put in a toaster?”

“Toast!”

“…”

“Wow.”

“Does anyone object if we revert to the two-player edition?”

\--

Douglas, having just witnessed Martin's discomfiture in the face of Arthur - _Arthur_ , for god's sake - smelled blood in the water. Now was the time to strike.

“What’s the going rate for a man with a van, these days?”

“Depends,” said Martin, through gritted teeth. “What sort of job are we talking about?”

“What sorts of things does a man with a van _do_?”

He was trying to keep the inevitable smug grin off his face, but, in all honesty, he wouldn’t really be bothered if he wasn’t successful. Across from him, Martin was sucking in air sharply; another few seconds and he’d have him on a hesitation -

“Heard from your wife lately?”

Douglas, genuinely taken aback, felt his mouth gape open for a second. Martin sat stock-still, reddening; he seemed shocked that he’d actually said it, the little shit.

Douglas smiled.

“Shall we make this a little more interesting?”

“Ah, Douglas,” said Arthur, raising a knowing finger, “I think you’ll find that’s a _non-secateur_.”

“Actually, Arthur,” he said, not taking his eyes off Martin, “it’s more of a gentleman’s agreement.”

Martin swallowed hard.

“Why not?”

Douglas cracked his knuckles.

\--

“Round again!” cried Martin, a manic gleam in his eye as the radio crackled.

 _“What’s going on?”_ came Carolyn’s voice over the intercom. _“Shouldn’t we be landing now? Is this - oh sodding hell, is this Faro again?”_

“Not to worry, Carolyn,” Douglas said smoothly. “This is definitely not a Faro situation. Captain Crieff is simply taking us around one more time to ensure we get the best possible approach for landing. Isn’t that right, Captain Crieff?”

“Is that a question?” Martin’s voice was desperate. “I don’t think I can tell anymore. Oh, god.”

Arthur, in an uncharacteristically pragmatic move, had adopted a variant on the brace position; he was lying on the floor with his cloak flung over his head.

 _“Douglas, what in god’s name have you done to him?”_

“That’s rhetoric,” Arthur pointed out from underneath his curtain; it wasn’t, but Douglas took a moment to be mildly impressed at Arthur’s committment all the same.

“My van,” moaned Martin. “My _hat_!”

\--

“I don’t think I want to play Questions any more,” Martin said in a small, muffled voice, his head in his hands.

“Statement!” Arthur merrily marked it down. Further along the tarmac, Carolyn was engaged in a spirited argument with three Danish air traffic controllers.

Douglas spun the keys to Martin’s van round and round on his finger. He’d give them back in the morning. Probably.

“There, there,” he said, magnanimously. He adjusted the brim of his new hat. “I’ll buy you a Little Mermaid figurine.”

**Author's Note:**

> Questions is entirely ripped off from Tom Stoppard's _Rosencrantz & Guildenstern Are Dead_. Unlike these fools, [they actually play it properly](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y-Sx4W2cKlU).


End file.
